


Thought We Lost You in the Fire, But There You Were in the Ashes

by ForAllLove



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Amnesia, Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Behold My License to be a Pretentious Flowery Shit, Forgiveness, Identity Issues, Learning to be Human, M/M, Mag7Week, One Reference to Slavery, References to Depression, learning to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 11:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForAllLove/pseuds/ForAllLove
Summary: "It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." (1 Corinthians 13:7-8a, NIV)A crash course in what it means to be human, through the eyes of a fallen angel.For the Mag7Week prompt 'Memories.' (And 'Fall.' And 'Supernatural.')





	Thought We Lost You in the Fire, But There You Were in the Ashes

Goodnight Robicheaux is born on the battlefield.

Amidst smoke and ruin, in fetid tents and boggy meadows, he moves from man to wounded man to stem the ebb of life with steady hands. Soldiers and surgeons pay him no mind; he passes through the ranks of the dying like smoke through the trees.

But even his power cannot save them all. Last breaths slip through his fingers like the breeze that flits over scorched earth. Those who rise soon fall again. Cannons tear open the sky. Ash rains down on bloody grass. One battlefield becomes another, and another, and another, and the killing has no end.

A twisted thing wells up in Goodnight. Who is man to take his brother’s life?

Who is man to defy the will of an angel?

He turns his hand against the oncoming army. _Stop_.

It is a decisive victory for the Confederacy, though one that is purchased dearly. Blood soaks the earth, and grey bodies rot in grey uniforms. Blood soaks the earth, and Goodnight huddles amidst the tatters of great grey wings.

 

* * *

 

For a season, Goodnight becomes a different creature. For a season, he takes up a rifle.

Quick as thought, he aims and fires, making shots that leave some men crowing and some men dead. He ends lives, saves others. One battle won, another lost — and still the war goes on. The Angel of Death, they call him, and the greater the legend grows, the less of himself remains. Or is it with every squeeze of the trigger that he becomes himself?

He runs before he finds out.

 

* * *

 

He thinks Sam Chisolm might be like him, or what he once was, only Sam sees a world that he can change.

Goodnight tries to explain; the words that come weigh the suffering of soldiers against slaves, children dying to defend a home built on the backs of other children, and the one found wanting is himself. Blood stains him to the bone, and all for nothing, for a flawed and hollow cause.

Sam is silent for a long time. “You’re a good man,” he says.

Goodnight knows he is neither of those things, good nor man, but then what is left?

 

* * *

 

He can no more save Sam’s family than he could the boys on the battlefield. They are all victims of the same war, anyway — humanity turning on itself in an ouroboros of futility.

He thinks Sam might be like him.

 

* * *

 

His hands shake. He smiles at men who did not march in war, closes his eyes over the hollow in his soul. His name goes before him and the stories are never far behind. He sees it in the corners of his eyes, that shadow at his back, following, always, waiting for him to fall.

Death comes to all sooner or later, and it is coming for him on great grey wings.

 

* * *

 

Billy Rocks comes as a surprise.

Billy is comfort. Billy is protection. Billy is scathing wit and moonlit nights and smoke and peace and revelation. Like a whirlwind, like lightning, like a falling star — inevitable, unstoppable, he pierces through the truth of Goodnight and settles in his bones. He makes himself at home as friend, then continues straight on to lover, and to everything.

There is a fire inside him, and it lights Goodnight up until he is dizzy with it.

 

* * *

 

“Goody,” Billy says one morning, one afternoon, when starlight dances on his skin and the sun pours red-gold streaks over his hair, “where have you gone?”

One by one, Goodnight puts away the hazy half-memories of Louisiana summers, battlefields, nightmares, his father’s voice, forgotten faces. He doesn’t need anything they hold, not while Billy is here.

Instead, he gathers bits of Billy — gathers them up and hides them away until he forgets why he does so. Where Billy goes, Goodnight follows, always, and for once in his life, he is not afraid to fall.

 

* * *

 

Sam asks seven men to stand against an army.

 

* * *

 

The people of Rose Creek pass the hours until their deaths with industry. They shore up their defenses as though that will turn back fate itself.

Goodnight plans and builds and strategizes, but he watches them flurry around him like ash on the wind and he knows.

Emma, who speaks of righteousness with her finger on the trigger. Faraday, who frays every edge until it unravels. Vasquez, who toils all day but laughs all night. Horne, whose gaze is fixed on a Heaven that sends no help. Red Harvest, who takes their measure and sets his path alongside anyway. And Sam, who sees a different battle, long ago.

He cannot save them all.

 

* * *

 

“Come away with me,” he says to Billy as he scrabbles their belongings together. “There’s nothing to keep us here. We could ride out tonight.”

Billy holds him by the shoulders until he stills. “These people need our help.” He strokes Goodnight’s arms, up and down.

Goodnight cannot be comforted. He scarcely remembers what he did in the war so many years ago, but he remembers helplessness. He remembers vengeance. He remembers waking up to a terrible hollow where his soul once was, and he is afraid that this time there will be nothing left at all. He clutches Billy’s sleeves. “Don’t you see, nothing will come of this but ruin—”

“Goody—”

“I can’t— Come away, please—”

“ _Goody_.” Billy gives him a gentle shake. “I have to stay. Even if it only saves one.” He tries to take Goodnight’s face in his hands.

Goodnight pushes away from him, turns his back. Of course Billy will stay. In his goodness, he has given Rose Creek his sweat, will give his blood, maybe his last breath. Goodnight is afraid to see it. “What you must think of me,” he murmurs, his hand upon the door.

“Hey.” Billy’s voice trembles. He shuffles closer. Goodnight doesn’t look at him. “I forgive you.”

What will he do if Billy goes where he cannot follow?

He runs before he finds out.

 

* * *

 

He flees into the dark with the prayers of the townsfolk churning in his stomach. Huddled in the shadow of his own fear, he rides through the night, to and fro, unable to shake the dust from his feet.

The sun is glimmering over the horizon when he sees the army. The devil has turned his eye towards Rose Creek, and nothing will survive until sundown — not Billy, not Sam, not anyone. They know how this day will end, and still they stay, and Goodnight—

And Goodnight turns.

Everything good in the world is in that town, in the people who love and strive and lay down their lives for each other. Who is he to abandon those he promised to protect?

Who is he to watch from afar when he can stand with them instead?

He spurs his horse down into the valley, for the devil has turned his eye towards Rose Creek, and nothing will survive until sundown — unless they have help.

 

* * *

 

Goodnight howls into battle like a man possessed. To the churchyard, to the bell tower — with Billy by his side, he clears a path as Faraday stakes his life and begins his ride.

Billy is smiling when the tower bursts into splinters around them. Bullets tear through the wood and make the air sing. Goodnight staggers back. Billy crashes into his arms. His back thumps against the rail — _crack_. They tip backwards. He curls around Billy. Together, they plummet into the dust.

Goodnight opens his eyes in a soft grey cloud. Billy coughs beneath him. Goodnight sits up, and two great grey wings unfurl as he goes. His wings.

He remembers.

Billy is still smiling. “I knew you’d come back,” he says. His face contorts. “Faraday!”

Goodnight leaps into the sky. With every beat of his wings, the ground rushes by in a blur. He whoops as he soars across the meadow, scattering horses and riders. He wheels around Faraday, shields him from the panicked volley, and catches up both him and his horse.

“What _are_ you?” Faraday cries, shrinking away.

Goodnight sets him down on Main Street, safe and sound. “The Angel of Mercy,” he says. He takes flight once more.

 

* * *

 

Bartholomew Bogue, the devil himself, takes one look at Goodnight and puts his gun in his mouth. He is only a man. Goodnight is not.

The bullets drop into the grass, and Bogue is on his knees in town, quick as thought.

While the people there gasp and dither, Sam is ready all too quickly with a rifle to Bogue’s skull and a twisted thing behind his eyes.

“Sam,” Goodnight says. He rests his hand on the rifle barrel, but lightly. “It’s over.”

“And he walks away. What kind of reckoning is that?” Sam shivers with pain and rage that Goodnight remembers well. They cannot change the past. All they can change are the choices they make moving forward, and this choice is for Sam to make.

Emma’s hand joins Goodnight’s on the barrel. Bogue will not meet her eyes. She turns away from him, towards Sam, shifting her hand onto his arm. “We should give him to the law and let the Lord deal with him,” she says.

Sam’s gaze slides to her face. Bogue robbed him of his family, but he also robbed Emma of hers, only days past. This was her war, and she is willing to end it with compassion. They share a long look. Sam makes his choice.

Slowly, he lowers the rifle. Emma smiles, a little glimmer of hope through sweat and tears.

Billy was right. It is worth it.

 

* * *

 

What remains of Bogue’s army trickles in. The people of Rose Creek gather in the shadow of the church. Goodnight moves from man to wounded man, knitting flesh and calming nerves. His hands are steady. The town will heal, and grow, and prosper, thanks to the courage of its people.

Billy, leaning against the side of the church, watches him work with a contented smile, as though he’s always seen the heavenly within Goodnight. His forgiveness sits low in Goodnight’s heart, an ember waiting to ignite when he can give it room to breathe. They have much to talk about. The shadows grow long and still Billy waits, with patience Goodnight can only endeavor to deserve. He intends never to keep him waiting again. He beckons; Billy sways towards him.

The church’s siding is dark with blood.

Goodnight falters, leaves his legs rather than his wings to carry him to Billy’s side. Billy crumples into the dust.

Falling to his knees, Goodnight bows over him. Tears drip onto Billy’s red-stained lips. He brushes them away as he cradles Billy’s face close to his own.

“Goody,” Billy says, the same old affection in his voice as though Goodnight has wandered off in a flight of fancy. Now, the words have jammed in his throat. There is no outpouring of healing, no matter how hard he tries. He keens. Billy touches his ear, feather-soft.

“My Billy,” Goodnight sobs. He is too late. Too late. “I should have protected you.”

Billy sighs at that, and his smile grows. He hugs Goodnight snugly, but his hands are tangled between them. His face is glowing. “That’s not your job.” Blackness surrounds them, glossy and silky as a raven’s wings — _wings_.

It is like a veil lifting in Goodnight’s memories. Himself, cast down, lost, and wandering. Heaven, granting him a companion to teach him what it means to be human. Billy, choosing him and following him down because he knew that Goodnight would need him. Mercy and Forgiveness, forever hand-in-hand. He leaves Goodnight breathless. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“I know,” Billy says. And there they lie, laughing together, safe in the shadow of their wings.

 

* * *

 

When the dust settles, Sam’s seven go their separate ways — Faraday and Vasquez to make mischief, Horne and Red Harvest to make peace, and Sam to make the world a safer place. Billy, Goodnight’s own guardian angel, wants to let the road take them wherever they’re needed, as long as it goes to the seaside, and Goodnight follows, always.

They ride out of Rose Creek on horseback in their comfortable old human forms, with one exception — Billy stretches his wings wide to soak up the sunlight. He flaps them, knocking Goodnight’s hat into the bushes; after Goodnight retrieves it, he does it again.

The road will still be there in the morning. For now, they let their horses graze in a meadow and take to the skies, wheeling and crowing until dusk, when they come together and fall to earth.

 

* * *

 

Goodnight Robicheaux was born on a battlefield, but it is with Billy Rocks that his life begins.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first Mag7 story, begun almost a year ago in the shower, as you do.


End file.
